


breaks me in two (like a lifeline)

by belatrix



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 22:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12309336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belatrix/pseuds/belatrix
Summary: He just hopes it isn’t anything he said while he was dying. No one should be held responsible for stupid crap they said while they were dying.[Rick saves Negan's life. It's what people do.]





	breaks me in two (like a lifeline)

**Author's Note:**

> ~~these two will kill me i swear~~
> 
> I feel like this is way too soft to be them and there's not a single medical accuracy in here, but I couldn't help myself? I live for the day when Rick gets all concerned about Negan, okay. We'll never get it, as canon isn't kind to the ship, but I still live for it.

 

 

 

Negan wakes to the sound of footsteps.

It’s all a blurry mess, at first, the world around him faded into bright pinpricks of light, hazy and unfocused. He blinks rapidly until the edges clear a little, and when he coughs his whole body rattles with it. His throat is all dry and closed up like he’s been yelling, and his hair is dripping sweat into his eyes, shirt plastered to his body with the chill of it.

He coughs again, grits his teeth and gets off the bed. Or he tries to, which almost counts as the same thing.

Rick’s by his side in an instant, then, one hand stretching out and landing firmly on Negan’s chest. “Don’t,” he says, with more forceful roughness than Negan ever thought the guy capable of.

Rick’s expression is hard and shuttered, but there’s something terribly tired about his eyes, something tense in the way he looks down at Negan like he expects him to break apart, any moment now.

“What the fuck,” Negan breathes, and it sounds like he’s swallowed sandpaper, “what the fuck, did you roofie me or something? I swear to fucking God, prick, I’ll—”

“Calm _down_ , Negan, I didn’t do anything.”

Rick's backing away, but it’s apparently only so that he can stand up to his full height, towering over Negan for what is probably the first time in recorded history. He really does look awfully fierce like this, but the whole display would be considerably more intimidating if he didn’t look so damn _exhausted_.

Negan opens his mouth on a curse he doesn’t get the chance to throw out, because Rick’s voice is rolling over him again, “you don’t remember anything, really?”

The thing is, Negan does. Kind of. It’s coming crashing down on him in fragments, and the terrible, stuttering ache deep inside his chest does wonders to help visualize it all over again.

There were walkers, he does remember this. A small fucking horde of them, and Negan had merrily charged at their center with Lucille, Rick following quick behind with a growl of overwhelming frustration; there was one of the fuckers’ rotting hands gripping at Negan’s side, and Negan was falling, and Negan was underwater, his clothes pulling him down like lead.

Everything had been so damn _heavy_ , until it wasn’t. Until there’d only been darkness, and—

—and what?

“Sweet baby Jesus, Rick, did you kiss me?”

He intends it to be flippant, an airy little thing, but something clenches and coils inside him and Negan has to close his eyes and try his damnedest not to vomit. The sheets under him feel real nice, he wouldn’t want to ruin them just yet.

“It’s called CPR, Negan,” Rick says, and he’s moving away now, fingers clenching around nothing. “You got two cracked ribs, and yeah, maybe I did do _that_. They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.”

“Huh,” Negan says. He’s managed smarter responses, but the present lack of wit is probably a side effect of the relentless urge to puke. And, belatedly, “you saved my life.”

His words are met with a brick wall of silence. Rick keeps his back to him, starts shuffling things around the room, maybe to keep himself busy. Maybe the same horrible tension that’s gripping Negan by the throat is curled up inside Rick, too. It’s annoying as fuck —since when does Rick _ignore_ him?

He just hopes it isn’t anything he said while he was dying. No one should be held responsible for stupid crap they said while they were dying.

Negan sits up just a little, feels his whole body retaliate at every inch, and good god, he’s really not as young as he used to be. Or it could be the near-death experience. Almost drowning tends to leave you creaking like a rusty hinge, Negan decides.

“ _Why_ did you save my life?” he presses, because almost drowning apparently also makes you an idiot.

Rick turns around, head snapping. “’Cause you were dying. I had to save you. It’s kind of what people _do_ , Negan.”

Negan snorts, because no, that’s most definitely not what people do; he’s lived through enough shit to know that, and really, Rick _must_ know it too. It does all sorts of weird things to him, like someone reached a hand inside his body and messed up a lot of wires somewhere. He looks up at Rick not looking at him and almost says something like, _thank you_.

“Where the fuck am I?” is what he ends up with, because gratitude is still very much not his forte.

A memory: coughing up water and blood, a pair of impossibly blue eyes inches away from his face. Coldness clinging like a physical thing. The taste of Rick’s mouth.

He shakes it off.

Rick draws a long breath, lets it out like the mere effort of it hurts. “I cleared a house, a couple miles away from that lake. It’s safe, but we’re gonna have to go back soon. We’re too far north, and it’s been two days.”

This time Negan does manage to push himself off the bed, ignoring the jabbing at his chest that leaves him breathless, his convulsing stomach. He crosses the room on embarrassingly shaky legs and suddenly Rick’s on him, _under_ him, his breath hitching as Negan grabs blindly at his shoulder to keep from doubling over.

“Fuck,” Rick mutters, and— “hey, steady, I got you.” Negan isn’t sure if the words are meant for him, or if that’s what Rick might’ve said to anyone falling apart in his arms.

He doesn’t say a thing and he sure as hell doesn’t meet Rick’s eyes. His cheek, damp with stale sweat, touches the side of Rick’s neck. Rick shivers but doesn’t pull away, his fingers closing warily around Negan’s wrist. They hold there for countless long, stretching seconds, Rick steady and tight, Negan breathing heavily, hands almost trembling.

Negan fixates on the pulse in Rick’s throat, incongruously steady. He feels Rick swallow.

“Okay,” he says, soft and weak and fucking pathetic, “okay, damn, I’m gonna lie back down now.”

He pulls away, feeling only a little less dizzy. His gaze is drawn as he watches Rick turn his head away and lick his lips. For a moment, just a moment, Negan wonders if they taste of him, still.

For a long time, silence hangs heavy and dripping between them. All Negan can see is Rick’s hands clenching and itching, all he can do is imagine them pressing down on his heart, trying to kick it back to life. His mind is reeling and screaming _thank you_ and _fuck you_ and _oh, god, Rick_ , but he won’t say any of it, as though speaking might shatter something, now.

It’s Rick who caves first, and it leaves Negan ridiculously, childishly relieved.

“You do that,” Rick says, and swallows again. That terrible tightness is still laced around the words, but there’s also something else there, a hint of steel, a hint of— “Actually—yeah, you need to lie back down. But make some stupid sex joke about it first.”

And Negan, he just blinks, unsure he’s really heard right. “What.”

Rick sighs, impatient, or maybe it’s just nerves, awkwardness, tiredness, helplessness —everything Negan’s bursting with, mirrored and magnified. “I need to know you’re fine and you’re not gonna die in your sleep,” Rick grits out. His stare is too bright, too blue, too piercing. “Be annoying about it. Make a bad joke.”

The space of a breath passes before Negan understands —and, oh fuck, he almost falls in love because of it.

He inhales slow and steady, straightens as best as he can. He lifts a hand to slick back his hair and doesn’t dwell on how disgusting it feels, offers Rick his biggest, most shark-like smile. It falters somewhere in the middle, but they both pretend not to notice.

“Now, I’m all sweaty and I need to start peeling some layers off,” he says, low and rough. “You wanna stay for the show, maybe lend a hand, Ricky boy? You know how much I like you co-operating with me, don’t you? And it is a big ol’ double bed we got here, maybe we could share. Not the only thing in the room that’s fucking big.”

Rick clenches his jaw as Negan waggles his eyebrows as suggestively as humanly possible.

It’s familiar ground.

A longsuffering sigh, and Rick’s eyes roll dramatically up to the ceiling as his fingers unwind again, and gratitude is drilling a bloody red gaping hole in the middle of Negan’s chest.

“I’m going to pack the RV,” Rick announces, as he turns on his heel and towards the door. “We’re leavin’ in the morning.”

Negan laughs then, but it’s really more of an exhaled chuckle that ends up turning into a cough. He watches as Rick walks determinedly out of the room, and notices that the tense line of his back has softened slightly. Only slightly, but it’s better than nothing.

 

 

 


End file.
